


Initiative

by laEsmeralda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A courtesan of Minas Tirith is visited by someone preparing to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Initiative

The woman set her quill and papers aside at the knock, hiding them under a sumptuous pillow. "Come in," she called, commanding her stage voice to be heard. Her door opened to reveal a cloaked man. Not, in itself, an unusual event. 

Her tall bodyguard could be seen just beyond, a querying look of arched brows within the helm. She let her gaze slide over the cloaked figure, taking measure of his posture. Despite the hooding, she saw nothing to fear. His hands caught her eye and sparked her curiosity. She glanced to her bodyguard and nodded once. The door closed behind the patron.

"I must be particularly careful, Sir, in these times," she said, standing and moving forward with grace. 

"'Tis a wonder you are open for business, Lady Miranda," replied the stranger.

Though he did not speak full voice, she heard and felt the music in it. She moved closer and ran a finger down his muddied and bloodied cloak, noting the fineness of the wool beneath the battle-stains. She did not flinch from the crusted blood. He did not move beneath her touch. "No matter how many heads of our neighbors the Evil One's minions fling, our men still have their needs, do they not? In fact, the more likely death is 'round the corner, the more likely I am to have a line at my door." 

"There is no line tonight, Mistress," he replied, with a glint of humor. "I chose my moment well."

"Then, you bring me good news. Those of us left alive in Minas Tirith are likely to live out the morrow," she said, rubbing a thumb back and forth on his chest. "'Tis a better prediction than any other method I know." 

Was it her imagination, sorely in need of pretty things at the moment, or had she seen the flash of a pearly smile? That would be unusual indeed, even among the very young. He did not strike her as very young; something in his bearing was learned in a way that youth could not imitate. Despite the stained cloak, his hands were smooth and clean and very pale, whiter than hers. Again, her eyes lingered. They were sinewy, strong, elegant, and wholly unlike the hands of any man she had seen. 

"Tell me your pleasure, Sir." She did not grow coquettish, that was neither her style nor her reputation. Her considerable wealth had been built on directness. Her gift for seduction was natural, not an artifice; it was a matter of accepting, drawing out and giving permission for what her patrons already wanted. There was no need to troll for business, to guess at what they wanted, for even the most shy boy would open up to her within minutes.

"I will understand if what I would ask of you is not to your liking."

She quirked her mouth. "That is never an auspicious beginning, young man," she replied, tapping a finger against his chest. "Men pay me to do things they do not think I will like, therefore, I must assume that your request may be much worse." She shrugged. "Whether or not it is to my liking is not at issue."

"Ah, you have wit and frankness at your disposal," he answered, removing her hand from his chest and examining it. "Very well. I do not lie with women. And as discretion would command of me, in present circumstances, I do not lie with men either. Therefore," he said, his voice warming as he turned her teasing logic back to her, "I find myself in a quandary."

The touch of his bare hand on hers was nothing short of stunning. Lady Miranda worked at regaining her breath as she replayed his words in her head; their first speaking had been entirely lost on her. "Ah, well, that is a quandary then." Some part of her felt deeply disappointed. The part of her that assessed risk versus profit stood in shock that the other part still dared to have a voice.

"There are no males of your profession here, it seems," he said, releasing her hand.

"Not under Denethor's reign," she almost spat. "Perverted and dark though his soul was, he thought to judge others' simpler pleasures." Her eyes flicked back to the darkness under the hood. "Unless you are one of Sauron's thralls, I would not judge you." She stepped behind him. He would not be aroused by her, but she could soothe him and satisfy her growing curiosity as to what the cloak concealed. Her hands slid up his arms. She felt of the power in them, and in his shoulders; she set about releasing the tension there even as her mind formed the look that would match the limbs beneath her fingers. Not an idle man despite his hands, not a laborer by his manner, neither a swordsman by his body.

He sighed, and she continued her ministrations. It would be easier if he removed his cloak, but it seemed he would know their bargain before he revealed himself. Perhaps he was scarred. It mattered not to her. She would have the power of giving him pleasure, and his money.

"If you came to me, then you imagine that there is something that I might do to ease your plight. Notwithstanding the fact that I am a woman."

"A lovely woman, I might add. I am not blind. Simply otherwise inclined."

She laughed, recognizing the compliment as genuine. "Very poetic of you. Do not avoid my questions or else I cannot achieve your ends."

There was an almost inaudible clearing of throat. "There are places that I cannot properly reach. I have ignored the want for some months now."

Lady Miranda continued digging her thumbs into his overtight shoulders and considered. "Even if you had privacy, the pads of the fingers are only of use if you are curled forward. It is limiting. And objects lack the warmth and flexibility of skin."

"It is so."

"Very well. My fee will not be less, however."

"I expected it would be more," he replied, and she could hear his genuine surprise.

"Those who know me understand that I am a woman driven by curiosity. You are compelling, perhaps more so as I have not seen your face or your body yet." One of his alluring hands disappeared underneath his cloak and returned with a purse. He placed it in her palm, and the erotic thrill of the weight of the gold, its sound of coin against coin, sent a frisson up her spine. "Not that I would require it if you wish to remain concealed," she added.

"So long as your silence is guaranteed, I would rather disrobe."

"I take pride in my confidences," she said, locking the payment away in a heavy box and redepositing the key in her bodice. "I have only ever broken one to save a life."

"You did not look in the purse."

"I could feel that you paid more than was necessary, not less." Lady Miranda stepped toward the curtained alcove, holding the draperies aside for him. She had but a few visitors that day and the laundry girl had kept up well. A small philter of incense burned in the corner and the fire crackled. She moved to turn down the sheets, hearing the rustle of his cloak as he drew it off. She resisted the urge to turn yet, giving him time, but the bright clink of scabbards on the beaten copper table caused her to whirl. Her bodyguard was to have removed all weapons. 

The sight of him was no less shocking than the unexpected sound of steel. Straight, white hair spilled down his arms and back, caught in tiny braids behind his ears--his curved, pointed, elven ears. He turned at her gasp and fixed his dark blue eyes on hers. 

Lady Miranda had seen the extremes of human appearance: the worst of ugly and the best of beautiful. She frankly preferred an uncommon face that combined nature's gifts and flaws--beautiful with a crooked jaw or unattractive features accompanied by pure, radiant skin. She was unaccustomed to being moved by a man's appearance and it had to be unusual to achieve her notice.

His face seemed to be everything unusual at once. He was breathtaking to a degree that caused the dimly lit room to seem so bright that she wished to squint. He bore scars in prominent places, like his upper lip, and his nose had once been broken, if reset with some skill. His extreme bone structure was inhuman beyond a doubt. Covering his ears would not disguise him. 

"Does this void our agreement?" He gestured at himself.

She swallowed first, and still her voice trembled. "No, but those knives should."

"I understand the reason for your search, and your bodyguard was quite thorough, but I must be particularly careful, my lady, in these times." She eyed him a bit longer. He moved away from his knives. "Now that I have the measure of the situation, you may lock them away if you wish."

"You are the King's companion-at-arms." 

"He is not the King yet, by his own command."

"I told you before not to evade my questions."

"You have not asked me any questions," he replied, roguishly, and as she had glimpsed earlier, his smile was without flaw.

"Indeed." She sat on the edge of the mattress and reached for the tray of refreshments. "Allow me to remedy that. Would you like a glass of wine?"

"That would be most welcome."

She poured for him, and when he had taken a liberal swallow, she reached over and began with the laces of his tunic. "Do you ever lie with men, or only those of your own kind?"

A flicker of discomfort moved over his features. "Both. Since I set upon this journey, there has been no... proper moment for such things. Now, my place in events is such that I would besmirch another's status were I to indulge myself."

"Understood."

He took another swallow and hummed appreciatively at the flavor. "You may be right in your prediction, Lady, that Minas Tirith will survive tomorrow, but those of us who go forth to the Black Gate expect to die." 

Miranda had faced deaths aplenty in the past few days, setting aside her grief with a cold hand in favor of profit. Such was survival. The strength in his face, the idea that one with endless life would willingly lay it down for a world he could simply leave, threatened to thaw her resolve and expose the grief. She looked away, smoothing his shirt open and returning her mind to her work. She thought on whether to be silent, to allow his thoughts to carry him forward, but her instincts urged her to speak.

"What sort of man would you choose if you were free to do so?" she asked. He accommodated her as she removed his shirt, moving his wineglass from one hand to the other. Although she could have slipped the garment down, over his narrow hips, she drew it over his head solely for the purpose of watching his hair spill back into place afterward. She folded the seemingly delicate fabric over the foot of the bed and turned her attention to his boots. He reached to help her and she pushed his hands away with a noise of disapproval. He straightened. 

"Someone charismatic," he began. "Quiet. A skilled warrior of necessity but not for love of bloodshed. Torn between things he must do. Someone who thinks on his actions but does not fail to act." 

"Someone like you?" She loosened the laces on his breeches and slipped the worn leather over his hips. She felt his head shake in the brush of his hair against her cheek. His scent stirred around her. 

"Nay, Lady. I am a singer and a player by nature. I often hesitate in my actions with all my thinking. I rarely take the initiative."

"You are a fearless defender," she replied. "We sorely need such defenders, my lord, and fewer of the coveting kind." She indulged in the feel of his inhumanly soft skin beneath her thumbs as she drew his breeches down over his legs and feet. The flesh of men swiftly loses the sweetness of youth but he had retained it. Her pulse throbbed in all manner of places and she bit the inside of her cheek in amusement at herself. Curiosity would be her downfall for certain. How ironic it was to have such an exotic sample at her mercy and know that he did not want her. He did not seem to mind her unnecessarily attentive touch, however. Perhaps he did enjoy it. "You haven't spoken of the look of him. What is your preference there?" She raised her eyes to his face.

The elf closed his eyes and she watched a tinge of sadness wash over him. "It is of lesser importance to me than his spirit."

"How does his spirit look to you?"

"Fiery," he answered without hesitation. 

She knew, without looking, that he had begun to arouse. "You focus on his spirit." She dropped all pretense of the conditional. "But he is a warrior, so his body is hard with use. He bears scars and the mark of the sun. His hair is tangled with the wind, his beard ungroomed of late. His hands are rough, the nails stained, and his palms would chafe your skin if he only had the courage to touch you." She felt his cock brush her shoulder, and she placed a reassuring hand on his hip. "Lie down, Legolas," she said firmly. "I understand."

The tear trembling on the lashes of one eye nearly ruined her ability to proceed. She watched it splash on his cheek before he opened his eyes and complied with her command. She joined him on the bed, sitting by his hips as he settled on his back. She longed to stroke his skin, to soothe him, but that is not what his lover would do. His lover would be torn, drawn inexorably to touch this miracle of an offering, fiercely hating his own weakness in the temptation. The man he would choose would not be free to choose, and therefore, would withhold tenderness.

"He is a good man, noble and true." 

"Yes."

"But he has his flaws. He rejects much of what he feels for you."

"I do not know if he feels anything for me beyond affection." 

"He has chosen another path, as you say. It is only the great power of his spirit that keeps him from touching you."

"No. He does not want me."

A flat chord in the harmonious voice betrayed the truth. The elf knew, instinctively, but denied it. She felt that it was time to push. "Oh, yes, he does. But he knows that it cannot be. He wills himself not to hurt you any more than he already has."

A choked sob. "No." His eyes closed again.

"So many times, in secret, you have touched yourself, conjuring him with you."

"Yes." A hand slid down over his quivering belly and she watched it in fascination as he struggled not to do what his fantasy commanded. 

"Do it!" she hissed at him, in as masculine a whisper as she could muster. Her actor's voice made the best guess at the one she had only heard in passing. "If I am tortured to it myself then you may not resist."

"Ah!" he exclaimed in surprise as his hand connected with his aching flesh. 

"On this night, there are no secrets, beloved friend. I come to you cloaked in mud and green, not red: the man you have known on this painful road, not the one I have to become." 

She struggled to stay in character as the vision in white skin writhed before her, throat arched, shoulders tight to the bed. "I may not kiss you, though I wish it. I may not caress you, though I want it." 

He moaned incoherently, his fist moving tightly enough that she thought the friction must cause pain. She reached for the jar on the bedside, carved of the same stone as her beloved towers, and twisted it open. Her fingers scooped into the cream; she had taken years to refine it, and she was glad to have such a thing for him. She dropped a dollop onto his fingers without touching him and was rewarded with a groan as it melted into his efforts. 

Her senses were attuned to men, but she could feel what he needed just the same. His nipples clearly ached to be licked. The expanse of his skin called for nipping and sucking. But his wished-for lover would not partake. His smell, a smell of sex and forest filled her room. She was aroused far beyond the touch of his gold. In his presence, she felt as she did with the woman who shared her bed, yet she wanted him inside her, something she had not wanted in years. 

His feet shifted restlessly. Ah, yes, the reason for his visit. He could conjure any dialog he liked in his head; he needed her for something else. Nevertheless, the unpredictability of her improvisation seemed to benefit him.

She covered the fingers of her stronger hand with cream and thought on the scenario, the voice. "We are soldiers," she whispered, as if others were close by, "and for us, there is only this in the dark before battle." Biting her lip, for it was not her accustomed technique to rush a man, she thrust three fingers deeply into him. He cried out, but experience assured her of the depth of his pleasure, the rightness of her choice.

She said nothing more, only moved within him, her fingers finding the difference in texture that he would have trouble reaching himself. She let him control the rhythm. He was much more rough than she would have been if choosing the force. He stopped several times, holding his breath, prolonging the act. After the third such pause, she could not help but grab a lush thigh with her free hand and force it back, letting her nails dig in a little. His back arched then, as he could never have done under his own touch, and he exploded, ruining the linens that draped the headboard and cursing a string of elvish. 

His breath heaved back into him. Lady Miranda was nothing if not patient, and she waited, softening her hand. A fine sheen had appeared everywhere on his skin, perhaps the elvish version of sweat. Great splotches of semen marred his chest and throat, and she bit back a smile at the force of his pleasure. Her smile quickly faded. A hint of tears had appeared again at the edge of his lashes, but they went no further. She withdrew to a little murmur of discomfort. 

Lady Miranda rose, quietly as he dozed, and washed, thinking how it would have been to have him touch her. Even the limited contact had quickened her body. Her fingers tingled with pleasure though her hand ached from being used so hard. She looked at herself in the mirror, taking in the rare look of wonder on her face. It made her appear younger, softer. 

When she returned, his gaze was on her again; he had not rested long. "If I had known how it would be," she said, keeping eye contact, "I would have performed this service simply for the privilege of watching you. I offer to return your payment now, and I will keep your secret to my grave."

Again, he shook his head in negation. "This is why I did not reveal myself earlier. You are responding to the glamour of the Firstborn, in which I am not unusual. Your talent deserves recompense. I have nothing but respect for what you do." He smiled a lazy smile. "More respect, now, afterward."

She felt a spontaneous blush that shocked her into blushing further. She did not particularly respect what she did, being well aware of her avaricious nature and the contempt she often felt for her patrons. Sometimes, she felt no power whatsoever, they were so easily pleased, their money so cheaply exchanged.

His hands moved to fold beneath his head. "Among my people, there are priestesses and priests who do these things when the need is great. They interpret our sleeping and waking dreams to lend guidance. They accept offerings on behalf of the Vala they choose to serve. What I gave you is an offering, Lady Miranda, for you have given me grace and peace before I die."

She looked at the perfumed cloth almost forgotten in her hands and then moved to wipe him clean. He stroked the loosened hair from her face. "You have wealth, do you not?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Only do what moves you from now on. Do not judge, but neither do what repels you. You think you are inured to it, but it makes you cynical."

She smiled at him wanly. "Sage advice. 'Tis a shame all my callers are not so lovely to please as you." He had been reluctant to disclose his desire to her for fear of offending and of betrayal, but once they had agreed, he lost all shame and gave himself to the experience. That was a powerful lesson.

He rose and began to dress. She put the cloth aside and stood as well, righting her hair. "My lord, Legolas," she said, a frown creasing her comely forehead as she sought the necessarily oblique words, "you despair of your plight, and I cannot disabuse you of that despair. Nor can I breach the confidentiality of another patron, but know this," she looked full into his eyes, "you are not alone in your suffering though the face you give it differs. I know that you do not imagine living beyond tomorrow, yet you may. The one you want now may never be yours; you discern this in your wisdom. Happiness may be yours nonetheless. Do not overlook it."

He looked at her for long moments, delving into her meaning. She wondered if elves could see within one's mind, but there was no moment of recognition that would have been visible if he had seen within hers. Under his intense regard, she was taken with imagining him sweeping her into his arms, kissing her and pressing her to his body. That would be all it would take at this point for her to lose herself with him. It would not happen, she knew this, but she allowed the thought for herself in the presence of his scent and his glow. For remembrance.

"I will try to heed your message, Lady, though I know not where to look," he said at last.

She tried to respond with humor. "If you live--and let me say that I fervently hope that you do--and if you do not thereafter speed away from my fair city, I believe that the answer will present itself soon." He raised an eyebrow, making her smile. "I do not think the one I have in mind conceals his lust quite as well as you do and will not withstand much more time in your presence. Particularly in an aftermath of peace."

"I am quite at a loss." He shrugged into his cloak.

She could see that he was and tapped a finger against her lips. How to put this within the confines of her silence... One could always remind a patron of his _own_ fantasy. "Recall what you told me, my lord. He is fiery, and he takes initiative. While he is torn between things that he must do, he would not forbid himself to touch you. Now leave me, before I lose my senses altogether and attempt to ravish you myself." She said the last with a saucy smile though it was the truth.

He bent to kiss her lips and then was gone, the door clicking firmly behind him. She fell into a chair and reached for her fan in attempt to cool herself. Her lips burned. In a few minutes, a helmed face peered into the room. "Are you well, Miranda?" came the distinctly female voice. 

"No, I am utterly ruined and he barely touched me."

"He smelt nice."

She groaned. "You have no idea. I am closing for the night."

"Good. I'll join you shortly--after I disappoint the few who sought an appointment after vespers. That is, if you want my company."

She could hear the smile in her companion's voice. "If you can tolerate my current state. And its origin."

"Tolerate it? I look forward to heat derived of human flesh and not the call of money." 

"I suppose that was warranted," Miranda muttered to the closing door. "Except for the 'human' part." She paced with her fan, consumed with new thoughts: reddish gold strands entangling with white, bronzed skin sweating against cream, deep kisses too long foregone. She could imagine the dilemma of neither one wanting to choose whether to ride or be ridden until one simply took the initiative as was his spirit. She did not need to imagine the name the man would speak, nor how it would sound in his rich voice.

Laying her fan away, she sighed, for two entertaining and generous patrons had gone to die together. If they lived, they would not need her services again.  
*******

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2004. Beta: Libitina


End file.
